Ladies of the Iron Throne
by Ramzes
Summary: The stories of the still unknown ladies who married Daeron II's sons.
1. Lyselle

**A. N. This is meant to be a series of one or two chapters about each character. I hope to keep it short but well, I can't promise a thing.**

**Ladies of the Iron Throne**

Lyselle

Some pitied her while others looked at her with horror. "It's true, she grew up locked up in a tiny chamber with no company but her lady mother," she often heard being whispered behind her back. With time, she had learned not to let that bother her. She could hardly shut people up. And she really couldn't make them understand that it had not been the terrifying ordeal they all imagined. Even Baelor couldn't understand, no matter how many times she tried to explain it to him. He was the only one she truly wanted to understand, the one who mattered most in her world. But he could only see her bursts of weeping, her irrational fears, her terror of locked doors – and she could never express the complexity of her feelings adequately. She desperately tried not to make a spectacle out of herself, so he would have no reason to be ashamed on her behalf. But she could not always get a hold over herself.

They had all expected that she'd be overjoyed at finding herself free – but how could she?

Sometimes, she still dreamed of the chamber she had spent the first twelve years of her life in. The time when hour glasses meant nothing to her because there was nothing in her life that demanded timing. Decades later, she was still terrible at keeping times – she had not built the habit for it when it had been the time. She was just a few months old when her day became measured by daylight. There was no reason to but neither was there a reason not to – she and her mother never left that room, never did anything that needed to be done at specific time. They rose with dawn and went to bed at moonrise. Year after year.

They ate whatever they were brought. She couldn't say they were ever left hungry or served a bad meal. Meals arrived regularly, three times a day, brought by women who always looked down and were eager to depart, just like the woman who came to clean their room once a week. Her mother never tried to involve them into conversation. Probably, she had tried and failed when Lyselle was too young to remember. But the possibility of them being capable of speech never even entered the girl's mind. The woman who came twice a year to fit them for gowns and underwear also never uttered a word. That was just how it was.

"It won't last forever," her mother often promised. "Sooner or later, Aegon will die and we'll be free."

Freedom. A word that meant nothing to Lyselle.

She saw the change of seasons and the sea beyond their small terrace but they mattered just as little to her as her mother's tales of mountains, young trees, animals, and birds. It was all a tale, something that had nothing to do with her world of a single, richly furnished room, day measured by the arrival of dawn, moon, and meals, and their books and embroideries. Lyselle could match every needlewoman with her skills and by the time she was eight, she had read every one of the many books they were provided with.

A few times.

"That's a good thing, that you want to be educated," her mother claimed. "When we leave here, you'll be well learned. Book knowledge is all I can give you now."

When she looked back, Lyselle could see that the thing that had tormented her – the only thing that had tormented her – had been the boredom she hadn't known to define as such. Too much time with too few things to do. Such was her life.

Until they came along.

All her life, Lyselle never forget the day she heard the voices – the first voices in her life other than her mother's and her own. Later, she would realize that they had been children's voices but then, they had been only new. Curious, she stepped outside and looked over the iron-wrought railing of the terrace at the huge courtyard that no one ever came in.

Sunlight danced over them, wrapping them into clouds of radiance, their hair turned gold. They were chasing each other around, peeking into the stone with a round hole her mother called _well_, climbed the gnarled black trees of the courtyard, talking animatedly to each other. Or rather, shouting.

Lyselle drew back, stunned. It was not only that they were new, it was that they were…

They were like her.

She stared at them, unable to move, wondering at the ease they were running around with. It seemed so strange to her.

All of a sudden, the girl looked up. Her eyes traveled over all the three floors of the building and found Lyselle. She smiled widely and showed Lyselle to the boy, waving at her, beckoning her to join them. Lyselle wanted it so much that she almost headed for the door she had never set a foot beyond and at the same time, she was so scared to go out. It was almost a good thing that she was behind locked doors.

"Come!" the girl cried. "Come and play with us."

But Lyselle couldn't move at all.

Soon, they were over with their game and they headed for the rusty gate leading out of the yard. "Don't go away!" Lyselle wanted to cry out but the words caught in her throat. She had never addressed anyone else besides her mother.

Maybe they had forgotten about her.

But the next day, they came back. She had been waiting the entire morning and now emerged on the terrace to watch them. Again, they beckoned her to come to them and again, she wanted to and didn't want to, and couldn't anyway.

That became their ritual.

When they didn't come, she felt bereft; when they returned, it was a joy. The only thing in her daily life that was not measured by daylight or meal time.

Until, one day, the unthinkable happened.

The noise came in an hour that was neither of the established times. And it was uproarious. Something that Lyselle had never heard before; scared, she pressed her back against the farthest wall and waited, her heart thumping. Unlike her, her mother looked eager, alert. The book fell out of her hands and she murmured, "What happened? Could it be that?..."

Lyselle's wide dark eyes fixed on the thick wood of the door. For the first time in her life, someone opened it in the midafternoon. Threw it open, actually. No one had done it. Ever.

The hallway was crowded with people. Outside, there was something ringing, ringing. "The bells of Baelor's sept," people murmured.

So many people. So many _faces_. Long and short noses. Fair and dark hairs. Thick and slender fingers. So many _everything_. Lyselle drew further back, pressed herself flat against the wall, overwhelmed. Her head pounded. She looked helplessly around for her mother who was standing tall and straight.

The crowd parted and she came forward – the girl from the courtyard, dressed in silks Lyselle itched to get her needles on. Now she could see the girls's almost white hair and the indigo of her eyes.

"I am Aelinor," the girl introduced herself and there was a broad smile on her face. Lyselle was so stunned by her first spoken contact beside her mother that she actually forgot to reply and didn't even think to smile back.

Fortunately, the girl didn't pay her any mind. Instead, she took both Lyselle and her mother in and went on, "The Stranger came for King Aegon. In this moment, His Grace my father is traveling for King's Landing to claim his crown. And you are free, my lady. Things have changed."

_Free._ The word scared Lyselle so much that she felt cold. Freedom meant leaving this room that had been her entire world. Freedom meant meeting new people… how could she remember all of them? Freedom meant speaking to people, and she could not find her voice.

When her mother caught her by the hand, Lyselle felt that Alaena's hand, too, was shaking.

Outside, sunlight hurt her eyes. It was not that she had not been outside before – she had stayed on the terrace for hours – but today, the sun was different. It burned so brightly that she couldn't see a thing as she crossed for the first time the courtyard she had seen every day in the twelve years of her life. Then, she started to see too many details that overwhelmed her, like the grooves in the trunks of the black trees and the slits between the stones of the courtyard walls.

They crossed a garden that had her gape with wonder. Such vivid colours, such perfect flowers, more beautiful than everything she could ever hope to embroider. Myriad of hallways in the building; staircases that she didn't know how to climb. Tears poured down her face and blurred her vision further. She let herself be led around, wishing for freedom to end or at least, give her some rest.

Finally, they were in a hall greater than everything Lyselle had read about in the books. Lyselle looked at the huge body lying down on a magnificent bed with carved dragons and blinked. None of the people she had seen today had been this big. His size almost dwarfed the bed!

"Who is this?" her mother asked, uncomprehending.

"Go to your knees," Aelinor whispered in Lyselle's ear and she did so, honouring the man who had held her prisoner all her young life.

* * *

**A. N. For those not acquainted with my other stories, this one is a part of an AU where Lyselle has Targaryen blood through her mother but Alaena's relationship with Aegon the Unworthy was never this good, so he had both of them confined as soon as he mounted the Iron Throne.**


	2. Lyselle 2

**Ladies of the Iron Throne**

_Lyselle 2_

"What are you doing here?"

Lyselle's heart stopped as she slowly drew her hand away from the splendid crimson of the big flower she had been touching. She had not meant to do any harm. She just wanted to touch, to feel this beauty that was so new. At night, before she felt into exhausted sleep, overburdened by the novelty of all around her, she sometimes thought that she was learning everything by touch, as if only touching could make it real.

She slowly turned around. "I wasn't going to pick it," she said defensively.

The newcomer raised an eyebrow. "Weren't you?" he asked.

Lyselle wondered whether she had seen him before. She might have. How was she supposed to remember all the _faces_ she had encountered in those last three days? How did the others do it?

"I was not," she said again.

He resembled Aelinor and Maekar somewhat, although his hair was not almost white but silver-gold. His eyes were another shade of violet, though. Purple. Lyselle had come to quickly realize just how unusual this colour was. He towered over her hugely, tall and muscular. Lyselle thought that he didn't look much older than she was but she couldn't be sure. Still, finding another person her age who was so much taller than her felt uncomfortable. It was not until she left her chamber that she realized just how short she was. People already whispered about it. _She didn't grow up because of the lack of sunlight_, they said but when she asked them, they denied. She was certain they had said it, though, and she was confused. When she asked her mother, Alaena said that people often whispered things they wouldn't repeat aloud.

She had so much to learn.

"You are the imprisoned girl, aren't you?" the boy now asked.

Slowly, she nodded and a smile played about his mouth.

"What did you do to merit such a treatment?" he asked.

Lyselle looked down.

"Well?" he insisted. "If His Grace had you imprisoned, there must have been a reason."

Horrified, she felt tears brimming in her eyes. She didn't know how to reply. He was looking at her as if he was expecting answer – and she didn't have one. She couldn't look up and again see this smile she could not make sense of. Surely knowing that someone had been imprisoned was no cause for smiling?

"Yes," someone said from their left. "Because her lady mother told him that he was as stupid as his son would become one day."

They both looked at Aelinor who stared at the boy angrily while placing a protective hand over Lyselle's own. "Daemon, you fool," she said. "Can't you see you're upsetting her?"

Lyselle was taken aback at her friend's bravery. It would never occur to her to speak so to someone who was so… impressive.

He glared back – and then looked at Lyselle. His smile died. "I was merely jesting, Aelinor," he said. "Why did she…?"

"Well, she isn't someone who you can jest with," Aelinor snapped. "She needs more time. And less of what you think of as your wit."

His fair face turned red. "I didn't mean…"

"No," Aelinor said. "You never do. But you know what, Daemon? There are people who do take your jests seriously."

Done with him, she led Lyselle further along the flowerbeds. "Don't mind him," she said. "Daemon, he isn't a bad one but since he was given that sword, he started thinking he was a man and it was his duty to charm every girl around."

"He didn't charm me," Lyselle muttered. Now she just felt stupid for not realizing that he hadn't meant his words in a bad way. Would she ever learn to recognize what people meant? She didn't think she would ever master the art of answering with witty remarks of her own.

Aelinor laughed. "He didn't, did he? You know, you might be the first one…"

Lyselle stopped in front of a flowerbed with yellow flowers, like they had been kissed by the sun. Aelinor looked at her. "Do you want to pick some?" she asked and without waiting for answer, leaned over for the magnificent fluttering gold

Lyselle reached for her hand and stayed it. "Don't," she said. "They are so lovely."

Aelinor straightened without picking the flowers. Everything was still so new for her newfound friend – but then, Lyselle wasn't newfound, was she? Aelinor had the feeling that they had been friends since the moment their eyes first met on the two sides of the terrace. With time, Lyselle would come to realize that flowers were meant to be picked, and wilt, and die, and burst into bloom again. But now, she was still enchanted by everything you see.

"Come on," she said. "I want to show you…"

Her voice trailed off when she saw the retinue riding towards Aegon's Hill. Her face lit up. "My parents! My parents arrived!"

She tugged Lyselle by the hand. "Come on!" she cried out. "Let's go to meet them!"

Lyselle smiled and shook her head. The thought of meeting so many new people scared her a little, so she decided to postpone it for as long as she could.

That didn't mean that she would wait to _see_ them, though. In fact, she had discovered that when she saw things privately, in secret before, her apprehension lessened when introduced to them formally. So she stood unobtrusively amidst the throng of nobles and officials gathered in the great courtyard to greet the newcomers.

She immediately recognized the new King, for Daeron Targaryen had the pale hair and purple eyes that both his children had inherited. When he dismounted, everyone bowed. But to Lyselle, the woman riding next to him was the true attraction. She had already heard the gossips about the new Dornish Queen, with her wanton ways, her incessant fights with her goodfather, and her influence on her husband. Many others, too, especially those who were new to court, were clearly there to see the foreign-born Queen. Daeron assisted her in dismounting as the Hand of the King came bowing and started speaking in low voice. Daeron nodded once or twice but his Queen would have none of it.

"Where are my children?" she asked and looked around, still straightening the hood of her cloak. "Where should I…"

But just then one of the doors of the ground floor opened and Aelinor came flying out. She crossed the door in two steps to fling herself into her mother's arms. Lyselle saw how the swarthy hands of the woman went white of clutching her daughter so tightly, the hood she had been straightening so carefully falling back to free long curls of black hair.

"What of Maekar?" Myriah asked when she finally let Aelinor go. Lyselle was close enough to see the imprint of Aelinor's brooch against her mother's throat but the Queen did not seem to care. "Isn't he here?"

Aelinor looked around. "I haven't seen him all day," she said. "I am sure he'll come as soon as he hears that you've arrived."

_Oh no, you aren't_, Lyselle thought and startled, realizing that this was the first time she was actually able to read another person's expression.

* * *

In the evening, they came for her; with her heart beating wildly, Lyselle followed the page who had brought her the King's invitation to visit him, praying that he had not summoned her to the throne room, in front of everyone living and those unsettling dragons… Aelinor had brought her there once and those skulls had scared Lyselle out of her mind.

She stepped through the door the boy opened with the feeling that she was doomed.

Instead of the throne room, she found herself in a big solar. Her own mother was there and cast her a brief encouraging smile before returning to her conversation with the Queen. Myriah of Dorne also smiled at her. Aelinor rose from the board game she was playing with Maekar and an older boy with dark hair and came to meet her. "Come on," she said and without delay brought her to the far end of the room where King Daeron and a fair-haired boy sat at the table, deeply in conversation.

"Your Grace," Lyselle murmured and executed her most elegant curtsey. In their long years alone, her mother had taught her how to perfect it, insisting that they were there only temporary and one day, Lyselle would live at court.

He nodded. "You may rise, child," he said. "Take a seat."

She did, feeling his eyes on her. She could say that he was examining her but it did not feel unpleasant. His eyes were big and kind, regarding her thoughtfully.

"I have to beg your forgiveness," the King said.

She blinked. In none of her books did kings ask forgiveness. Of anyone.

"I tried to do my best for you and your lady mother," he went on. "But my best wasn't good enough and for that, I am sorry. I can only try to make amends."

She was silent. He sighed. "Enough of that. I should not burden you with my own regrets. Actually, I summoned you because we need your help."

Lyselle was taken aback. The King needed _her_ help? He smiled at her. "This is my son Aerys," he said. The boy smiled at her, too. Lyselle decided that he was her own age and then remembered that Aelinor had confirmed he was. He was quite slender and pale, almost as pale as her. Maybe he hadn't spent much time in the open, either. She immediately decided that she liked him.

"We have an argument over the veracity of what Maester Gyldayn and Maester Munkun wrote. As you might know, they contradict each other quite often."

She nodded. "I would look at their sources first of all," she said and in no time at all, the three of them were deep in conversation about various books and approaches.

Years later, Lyselle would think back of this night, relive it over and over. Baelor had been there, yet she hadn't even looked at him properly – she might have been of the age where girls started noticing boys but to her, those things would come much later. She had simply enjoyed the conversation on topics dear to her heart, oblivious to the fact that it was the first time Daeron and Myriah started to think of her as a possible future Queen.


	3. Lyselle 3

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Ladies of the Iron Throne

Lyselle 3

The wedding got delayed a few times and by the whispers of court – whispers that she had finally learned not to show that she has heard – Lyselle knew that this should trouble her. But it didn't. As unskilled as she was in intrigues, she knew it didn't have anything to do with some regret on the King's part for choosing her for Baelor's bride. They were simply giving her time to adjust and for that, she was grateful.

"People say the delay cannot be explained with your inexperience any longer," Aelinor told her one day, smiling. "You're mastering the art of living here."

Lyselle smiled too, pleased to hear it. Of course, she knew that she wasn't nearly as ready as the court thought her but it was good that she managed to create the impression.

She was getting better at interacting with people but no one, even her mother, even Aelinor, knew just how hard it was for her. She could never share the truth of how she saw people, for it made her feel uncomfortable enough already. To her, their faces were just plaster masks with holes where eyes and nose, mouth and ears were. And on those faces, they painted strange changes that she had trouble linking to their feelings. It would be easier if they expressed sentiments in the same way but they didn't. Worse, in different people one and the same expression meant a different thing. In the King, narrowed eyes meant that he was examining an object or person carefully; in the Queen, it meant that she was getting angry. Maekar compressed his lips when he was having some inner argument with himself; Aelinor did so to stop herself from saying something hurtful. Alaena rolled her eyes in despair over someone's stupidity; Baelor did it comically to make people laugh in situations fraught with tension. Really, how was Lyselle supposed to memorize all the expressions of every single person and interpret them correctly in order to socialize successfully? Or learn to use expressions herself?

Often at night, she would rise and light a few candles. Alone and focused, she would sit in front of her mirrors and start practicing various expressions and gestures, repeating them over and over – all those things she had seen people doing. No one ever realized just how carefully she was examining and imitating them, until they finally started taking their own gestures and expressions that she was throwing back at them as hers. No one should know that it was all an artfully crafted mask, that behind it Lyselle was still an ignorant little girl. If she was to survive, she had to look like one of them – and after all those years spent in an isolated room, she could do it only by studying them the way Shiera Seastar was rumoured to study sorcery. She would need many years to have her expressions and movements echo the feelings that animated her soul. No, it was better to wait and learn, instead of being immediately plunged into a third life, as different from her second as her second was from her first.

After they were finally wed, she was left to build her household on her own – and she was terrible at it. She chose companions who were unfit; she didn't know how to seat the guests at the table without giving offence to someone; all she knew about ordering food and drinks for feasts was what she had read in the books and later, what she could observe in the Red Keep and the Queen's way of handling things. She could hardly fulfill the role of a principal lady at court, despite her best efforts to emulate Myriah – the other women were always more elegant, more lively, more comfortable socializing. She would gladly leave her mother or goodmother to arrange things for her but both women were quite clear that it wouldn't happen. "You have to learn to do things on your own," Alaena said. "That's the only way."

"You're doing wonderfully," Myriah claimed despite all Lyselle's mistakes.

"All I am doing is failing," Lyselle insisted and despite everything, she felt better when the Queen would start listing all the things her gooddaughter did right. Somehow listening to her made her believe that her mistakes were not so terrible after all, that with time she'd get the beating of the complex heart of the giant mechanism that was court life. Even Myriah, with all her grace and wit, could not win everyone over – there were too many of those who blamed her for the course the King had settled for himself and his court. Lyselle would not win everyone over and with time, it became easier to accept it.

Fortunately, Baelor didn't care about order and having things done the right way. He never looked embarrassed when Lyselle did things that put him into really uncomfortable position and had her back when the court snickered behind their hands at the panic fits that sometimes descended over her, triggered by the most unexpected things. He was always gentle and patient and never forgot to compliment her when she achieved something most women wouldn't consider achievement, like spending an entire day in a noisy hall without feeling drained and defeated by anxiety. Always willing to help her with whatever she asked him, soothe her fears, reassure her. And she adored him because of that, yet she vaguely realized the strain she was putting him under with the intensity of that feeling_. It must be very hard indeed to be one of the gods_, he had once said. _All of the humanity's hopes, all its love – what a burden! Some indifference, please. Some air._ Lyselle was completely aware that this was what she felt about him – and her way of give him air was spend much of her time at Dragonstone. She felt more comfortable there, too, away from court. This way, they were both able to enjoy the time they spent together. If it wasn't for the constant miscarriages that followed her first two births, Lyselle would have been blissfully happy.

Until Daemon Blackfyre claimed the crown and the realm got split in two.

Lyselle could hardly believe it. Finally, the realm had a decent king. A great king even. One who had achieved what Aegon and his sisters hadn't even with three dragons and Daeron the Young Dragon – Daeron the Vain Dragon, as far as the Queen was concerned – had been unable to keep with fifty thousand men. Someone who didn't keep women and children imprisoned in their rooms just because he disliked them. And there were still those who preferred someone whose main makings were looking good, having a goddamned shiny sword, and being martial? As far as Lyselle had heard, that was how the bloated mound of a man she had seen only once, after death, had been when he had ascended to the Iron Throne. But there were enough of those who could benefit if a change came into place. _He cannot win_, she told herself repeatedly. _None of the Great Houses stands with him._ But she was surprised by the number of lesser Houses who were willing to risk death for half of their members, so the other half would have a chance for elevation and spoils.

When she was finally summoned to King's Landing, she knew that the end was near… in one way or another. Three months along, she took the children and boarded the ship that took her away from the composure of her favourite place back to the roiling swarm of King's Landing. Baelor looked extremely grim and aged beyond his years and she did her best not to trouble him with her worries, even when those intensified with the news flying from Summerhall explaining why Naeryn's arrival would be postponed. Although it wasn't mentioned into the letter, in no time at all everyone knew that the third child of the Princess of Summerhall had been premature… and monstrous. Dragon-looking. People spoke of scales and a tail and Lyselle spent many a night shaking in fear for her own babe… if it made it to viability at all.

"Stop thinking about such things," Myriah said sharply to her once when they were alone. "The babe will be fine. Such a thing strikes very rarely and it already did here. You should be fine."

Lyselle looked up from her embroidery. "And if I am not?"

"Then you won't be and there's nothing you can do to change it. Try not to worry yourself sick in advance." Shadows of old ghosts stirred behind the Queen's black eyes. "Because if you let it happen, the sickness might not leave your spirit even after the babe is born. It can poison your life and theirs and you might be unable to chase it away. Don't let it happen. Stop it before it possesses you."

"Did it possess you?" Lyselle asked before she realized that she really shouldn't have.

The Queen only gave her a look that made her shudder. If Myriah of Dorne, with her self-confidence and will to put up with the whims of the gods could fall prey to this sickness of anxious anticipation, what chance did Lyselle have?

She couldn't help it. And among the unfolding events, there were few that could inspire sense of inner peace. Looking at Naeryn who had finally arrived with dead eyes and broken spirit, at Aelinor who was fighting a battle of her own, of all the men who were to leave for the battlefield and the women who would be left to wait, she wished she could hide in the solitude of the chamber she had grown up in.

And still, despire some lapses from time to time, she managed to withstand all the winds. She might have panic fits. She might prefer to stay apart from people. She might want to hide. But she didn't. Instead, she reached into her catalogue of expressions and chose the mask of hopeful serenity. One that she took off only after it was all over, as a future queen was expected to.


	4. Selena

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Ladies of the Iron Throne

_Selena_

"The Velaryon woman is dead. Childbirth finally proved to be too hard for her."

Silence descended in the great solar at Riverrun. Lady Tully sighed and shook her head. "May the Stranger have mercy on her," she said.

"He will." Selena was sure of that. "The Princess was a kind and gracious woman, much beloved in the realm."

Indeed, Naeryn Velaryon Targaryen's many charities were extremely well-supported and encompassed great masses. And there was more than one official paper granting lenience to those who fell under the wroth of the Iron Throne mentioning explicitly, _Pardoned solely on the intercession of my dearest daughter the Princess of Summerhall_. Besides, the gods had seen fit to make her a beauty into the bargain and that alone could atone for many sins if Naeryn had them. Selena's older sister had met her at court and claimed that with her silver-gold hair and purple eyes, she could pass for King Daeron's own daughter.

Lord Tully waved her sentiments away with an impatient hand. "That means that we now have a chance to make a match with the royal family," he said and his daughter's heart sank. She had no desire altogether to wed Maekar Targaryen, a man who was regarded as cautiously as his wife was… had been… universally beloved. Not that people had bad things to say about him but grim nature and short temper were not traits that would attract Selena. The fact that he already had many children by Naeryn Velaryon did not make things any better and neither did the detail that as a child, he had survived the speckled monster. His eyesight might be intact but he was said to have terrible scars on his face, as the few who had fought the sickness off did.

But the ancestors of House Tully had never been kings like those of the other Lords Paramount. As a result, they were always looked down hintedly upon. Lord Advard was desperate to fix it, look at the rest of them as equal. And Selena was a girl who would never think of doing something to endanger those plans. In this, she had an asset in her auburn hair and warm brown eyes. There was nothing displeasing about her, nothing that would make even the greatest lords feel anything but proud when they entered a hall with her at their arm.

_Family, duty, honour._ Those were their words and she lived by them.

And gods, she needed them to succor herself in the unrestful life in King's Landing. Under the golden sheen of splendour and entertainments, she could feel the pulsing of a rotten, malicious heart. Greed, ambitions, lust. As much as she enjoyed the evening entertainments, she was scared of the daily gatherings with the other noblewomen in the hall for needlework. Those were women who were just as competitive as their husbands and fathers were… as Selena's own father was. But the weapons they wielded were not swords. They were spying on each other, telling on each other, doing harm to each other, and smiling on each other. Selena imagined that was how a bee hive looked like.

To her surprise, she found out that she immediately felt at ease in the Queen's company. That was the last thing she had expected because Dorne's idea of family, duty, and honour looked quite different from House Tully, and Queen Myriah was from Dorne. But she had a way to rule her family and household with stern yet gentle hand and make everyone feel special and welcome, even a young lady who was new to court. Selena was especially impressed with how well Myriah handled her grandchildren, being involved in the basics of their lessons and obligations. Still, her complexion and thinness showed that the rumours about her failing health were not unfounded and Selena was sorry about that, for she believed the loss of the Queen would be a hard blow to everyone, especially her King who seemed to be deeply attached to her.

Princess Aelinor, though, was less than welcoming. Oh she said all the right words and maintained perfect politeness but there was something cold and hateful in her eyes whenever she thought herself unobserved. She disliked Selena, the girl had felt it as early as their first encounter, before Selena ever had the chance to do something to merit her dislike.

Fortunately, the Princess did not spend too much time here – she had her own ladies and she didn't seem to be all that fond of needlework, although she had the skills required. From time to time, Selena encountered her in the gardens, usually trailed by an attendant or two, always with that slight limp of hers that became visible when she was tired. Often, she sat on a marble bench, holding a little girl in her lap – Princess Rhae who had obviously clung to her after her mother's death. Daella preferred sitting in the dirt next to them, turning her fine attire to incredible mess. Selena thought the girls were lovely but she had no idea what she would do with them. Comforting them and making them laugh would not come as naturally to her as it did to Aelinor.

But with time, it became clear that this was a problem she wouldn't have to deal with. Maekar Targaryen, just as cold and unlikeable as he had been described – and far more good looking, for the scars were not nearly as bad as she had been led to believe – made it glaringly clear that he wasn't interested in taking a new wife. Once, Selena overheard a conversation between him and his mother – not a quarrel, exactly, but not a nice exchange either. To her surprise, it looked like he was still grieving for Naeryn Velaryon – she hadn't thought him capable of that – and he sounded quite determined that there won't be a second wife, ever. _I wouldn't take Daenys the Dreamer if she appeared_, those were his words, _let alone a girl who'll demand things I cannot give. I don't care what the Crown might give to her House, at the end I'll have to be the one who live with her and I won't do it._

The great relief at the thought that she wouldn't be forced to put up with him was quickly swept away by the arrogance he rejected her with. Who did he think he was? Even the King had wed where he had been told to! What right did Maekar Targaryen have to make assumptions about her, treat her like a boring burden before he even knew her?

But it turned out that the situation could and did get worse. Even knowing all about her father's inspirations, Selena was stunned when she was appraised that she would marry the madman, so stunned that for first time in her life, she raised a protest against her father's plans.

"You cannot do this to me! For the Mother's sake, the man starts blubbering all of a sudden, talking to people who aren't there!"

Lord Tully gave her an impatient look. "But he isn't violent. No one has stated that you have to stay there till the end of his fits. Trust me, child. I know better."

She did not trust him at all. But she would do her duty. To do something else would be dishonourable. So she nodded in acceptance and went on with the plans, pretending not to hear the rumours trailing her like snakes, both vicious and… well, envious. No matter what, she was marrying a prince. Her children would be blood of the dragon – something very few ladies outside the Targaryen dynasty itself had ever been granted.

"With time, she's going to realize it's better this way," she once heard Princess Aelinor say. "She'll have a family of her own. And Rhaegel is a man who is a thousand times better than Maekar."

"Quite right," Prince Baelor agreed. Aelinor hummed and Selena fought the surge of hatred she felt. This woman who could no longer dance or even walk for too long, who didn't know how to deal with such a ridiculous predicament – how to push her own lord husband into consummating the marriage – dared talk about her as if she were a stupid child who wanted too much and didn't know a thing.

It took her a while to realize that yes, she hadn't known a thing.

She was surprised at how defensive she was of her boys. It was unfathomable to her now that they would have been placed behind someone like Daeron and Aerion in the succession. And now that she had a family of her own, she knew for sure that she wouldn't have wanted to share her husband with the family he had had with another woman. Aelinor had been right about that, although how she could know so much when she didn't have a family of her own was a mystery to Selena. Maybe it came with being born Targeryen. Maybe that was the only way to survive in this court – getting to know the feelings that made the others' hearts beat.

In the beginning, she was afraid of her husband. As unpleasant as Maekar was, with him, she would have known where she stood, at least. But with someone who was mad? Her standing might change as swiftly as his own state of mind. She spent the first few months of her wedded life on edge.

Strange but it was Aelinor and Maekar who made her start looking at Rhaegel for first time and see the man behind the ailment. If two people as unlikeable as them could show such care to someone, this person should be very special, indeed. And he was. Always caring. Always capable of making the rest of them smile. Even in his spells, he was unfailingly kind to his servants, albeit disturbingly sincere about the lords. And while it didn't sit well with the rest of the family, exactly, it wasn't a thing they truly minded all that much. "Speak out, Rhaegel, speak out, brother," she was sure she once heard Baelor mutter. "Tell them everything, at last. They think our patience is unlimited."

The change did not come at once.

First, the fear dissipated, along with the realization that spells or not, Rhaegel would never hurt her. Then, the appreciation came, slowly. Aelinor had meant _the better man _words quite literally. Selena had never known a better man than her husband. And finally, when she felt confident enough to help out during his spells, it was as if the unrestful layers of her soul had finally fallen in place. She now had a family of her own. She was doing her duty. And that was all the honour that could be demanded of her. It was not a perfect life but it wasn't a bad one either.

And then, the Spring Sickness came and there was no life for her at all.


	5. Naeryn

**Thank you, VVSINGOFTHECROSS, for following so faithfully.**

Ladies of the Iron Throne

_Naeryn_

When she thought about it later, she realized that something had been out of order, profoundly. Not even when she had first been with child had she felt so ungainly, so clumsy, so ill as she had with this last pregnancy that had been seemed unblessed from the very beginning and even before. With her earlier children, she had been happy and full of energy even when her food disagreed with her; with this one, she had been weak and irritable, her head throbbing, her skin pale and irritated, her frame crushed under the weight of this enormous belly that had turned into her enemy, unable to find a pose that would let her to truly rest. The labour pangs had been different, too, harder than anything she had ever experienced, and they seemed to be leading nowhere; through the haze of pain that whispered seductively of letting go off the fight and finding relief, she heard the maesters and midwives talking about giving her some potions to expel a dead child to save her life, and that stirred the instinctive fear that pain had put to sleep for a while, the knowledge that she must either deliver this child or die, and when she thought she could bear it no longer, that death was preferable to a moment of further pain, she still raised her voice in a last howl of effort and then, when she felt the child finally tearing its way to the outer world, she closed her eyes, feeling that she could not even make the effort to expel the afterbirth. She only wanted to plummet into a deep sleep with no dreams at all.

The horrified gasps and a small shriek of shock made her rise on her elbow, despite everything. She saw one of the midwives in a hurry to carry the newborn away, keeping a good distance from the bed and the babe not quite close to her, as if she was… scared.

"What's wrong?" Naeryn asked and tried to rise from the bed. "What's wrong with the babe! Is it not breathing?"

"Don't let her rise!" someone yelled. "Don't let her see!"

That was all she could remember before she slunk into oblivion.

When the morning came, she had been already told about the rest of it. Her son had been stillborn and that was good because he had been… monstrous. Scales and wings. A dragon tail. Naeryn heard the news in stony silence, too shaken to speak. But later, alone in her chamber, she realized that she had not been surprised to hear that there was a problem. She had just been unaware of the details.

It was Maekar's fault, of course. Maekar's blood. Everyone knew that from time to time, there were children in the Targaryen line born not breathing and quite dragonlike in their looks. It happened very rarely but it had happened before. _And now, it happened to me_, she thought bitterly. Her husband accepted her silent accusations without trying to prove them wrong. In fact, he didn't even insist on meeting her when it became clear that she was avoiding him. He behaved as a man guilty and that gave Naeryn some dark satisfaction. He _was_ guilty. Of course he was!

Deep inside, Naeryn realized that in one aspect, at least, this strike of doom had been heavier on him than her. Without him saying it, she knew that this was the first child by their union that he had desired and expected eagerly. With Daeron and Aerion, it had been duty, expectations imposed by court, by norms, by Maekar himself; now, it had been something to come from the heart, not the head. Naeryn had just started to hope that he had finally started requiting her feelings; now, she no longer cared, love and hope looking like distant seconds compared to the desolation that had claimed every corner of her heart. And because she didn't care, she couldn't sympathize with his pain, not the way he did with hers. Instead, she plunged even deeper in her many charities, hoping that the good she was doing for strangers might help her forget the good she refused to do in her own home. _He isn't the one to blame_, she thought. _I am not being fair_. But as hard as she tried to push accusing thoughts away, they came back with renewed force, making the rift between Maekar and her wider. She could only watch with horrid fascination, unable to change herself, unable to stop the estrangement.

Had it been an accident, she might have been able to overcome it. But it had not been. It had been Maekar's heritage; it might come back with any child they might have yet have. Naeryn was so repulsed by the very thought of her husband touching her that it must have showed – that was what she could deduce of Maekar's profound absence from her bedchamber. She didn't even care whether he went to whores. As long as he didn't come near her, she was glad.

Until the war came to its final stage. Until it was glaringly clear that they could lose everything. Until he took her to King's Landing to stay and he left with the army, and she knew he might not come back alive.

The fear for him was the first emotion that broke the ice cloak chaining her feelings since the stillbirth. The second was the stirring of jealousy – had he found a harlot already? There were many such women traveling with the army. Had he started doing for her the small things he had used to do for Naeryn – brushing her hair out, washing her back when she bathed? Naeryn didn't doubt that she bathed regularly. Ever so cleanly, Maekar would never go near a woman who was unwashed.

Naeryn hoped that the return of her jealousy meant that she had finally started to overcome the tragedy and the resentment Maekar did not deserve at all. She prayed to the gods to bring them victory and promised that should her husband return unharmed, she'd put the past behind.

And she felt terrible for being unable to keep her promise. Although her aversion for Maekar's touch had abated somewhat, although she was incredibly grateful that unlike so many others, he had come back alive, although her love for him was back, as strong as ever, she was anything but ready to resume their life the way it had been. More often than not, she remembered the singers in her father's castle of Driftmark. _Love_, they had all chanted. _Love._ As a very young girl, Naeryn had accepted without question that being with the person one loved would bring happiness. Now, she knew better. Love was not enough to sustain a marriage of happiness.

And then Aelinor went sick.

In the beginning, Naeryn didn't pay much attention to her absence. Aelinor and Maekar had this in common: they usually fought any sickness away remarkably fast. _Even illness runs away from you when you look at it and scowl_, Naeryn had used to say to her husband, barely keeping the smile away. Of course, then Maekar would look at her and scowl, trying to keep his own smile away. Aelinor was equally horrifying.

This time, though, she didn't leave her chambers for weeks. Very few people were allowed entrance and Naeryn started to worry. Surely Aelinor should have recovered already? What was wrong with her? If she had to make a guess, she'd say Aerys had something to do with it, since he had become even more withdrawn than usual. But how? He couldn't have given her a beating!

"He didn't," Maekar said curtly when she asked him, looking stunned and disbelieving that Naeryn might have even entertained such a thought.

"Then what's wrong with her?"

But he had no intention to answer.

_She must be very ill indeed_, Naeryn thought and in the next few days, her worry over her friend was mixed with the bitter resentment that no matter the years and distance, Maekar had not gotten over Aelinor. She could see it in the way he looked up when the servants came to announce a newcomer, clearly hoping that it would be her, the way he distanced himself from Naeryn even more than usual. _Is he ever going to get over her_, Naeryn asked herself angrily and she did not like the answer.

Until Aelinor came out of her chambers. Naeryn's gasp of horror at her emaciated frame and waxy face was immediately replaced by a sinking feeling at noticing the haunted look in Aelinor's eyes as she stared at the children who were running down a nearby hallway – the same look she so often encountered in her looking-glass.

* * *

"You have sent for me, Naeryn."

She looked up from the scented candles she was lighting and invited him to take a seat. It felt strange to be so formal when only a year ago he would have simply plopped into the nearest chair and watch her gracious movementa, the delight in his eyes quite visible. Yes, a year ago her chambers had been, in fact, theirs and vice versa.

She poured two goblets of wine. For a while, they sipped silently before she asked the question that had tormented her the whole day. "Aelinor."

He frowned. "What about her?"

"The babe she lost," Naeryn clarified and saw how tightly he gripped the goblet. So there _had_ been a child. She had been right. "Was it yours?"

Had she done it? Had she, with her constant rejection, with blaming him for something that she knew wasn't really his fault, driven him to Aelinor? She was only too aware that he didn't need much pushing. It had only ever been Aelinor for him, for a big part of his life. Especially at the time he had wed Naeryn.

Maekar released his goblet and looked down. Then, his eyes fixed her and there was no remorse in them. "Naeryn, I'll say it only once because I don't feel guilty and I don't feel any need to justify myself. And yet I wouldn't have you torment yourself over a lie. Yes, it is true that Aelinor and I had a relationship once, when we were very young. I wouldn't humiliate you or myself by pretending that it was easy for me to leave her. You, of all people, should know that it wasn't. But I swear, the things between us took place before I told the King I would wed you and not when I was already with you. I don't know who her babe's father was. But it has nothing to do with us – you and me."

She shook her head and smiled, hesitantly at first and then more brilliantly. She could say when her husband was lying to her… and when he was not. "Until now, I had no way to be sure, Maekar, and you know it. I simply had no way."

_Especially when you push me away from your bed_, he thought cynically. _Of course you'll be afraid that I'll find another one. _But he didn't say it. Instead, he rose. "Well, I am glad I was able to put your mind at rest…"

She hesitated as she was seeing him off to the door. And then, quickly, before she changed her mind, she said, "I've been left to rest for too long. Stay."

He slowly turned and looked at her inquiringly, uncertainly. Naeryn's heart soared. Right now, his feelings for Aelinor didn't matter. Right now, he hoped to be with her.

"Stay," she said again. "Stay with me."

She took his hand and let him take her to the dimly lit bedchamber.


	6. Aelinor

**Once again, VVSINGOFTHECROSS, thanks for following my characters through their journeys.**

Ladies of the Iron Throne

_Aelinor_

When the water in the tub became lukewarm, Aelinor finally rose and stepped out of it to wrap herself into a fragrant towel. Her handmaidens clucked disapprovingly but they had long ago learned that no matter how much they insisted that it was their duty, their lady preferred to bathe on her own, needing help only with her back. Even her long hair, she washed on her own.

Tonight, she took an extra time to brush her hair out and apply the ointments that would make her skin smoother and sweet smelling. To don one of her favourite gowns, one that hugged her slender frame quite favourably. Of course, she knew that Aerys would not notice if she chose to wear a sackcloth. But it made her feel more confident, like a man-at-arms who felt better when he had made sure that his weapons were in their best state. Truly, beauty was one of the very few weapons a woman had.

Surely he'd understand that they could not go on like this? She had barely seen twenty-five namedays; he had seen two more. They could not live in chastity for the rest of their lives? She had been wed to him in order to produce children, strengthen the dynasty, especially now, with Lyselle's repeated miscarriages. He was one of the kindest people she knew – surely he would not want to deprive her of motherhood?

She looked at the notched candle. It was long past the hour everyone in the Red Keep slept, save for those couples who were too busy with each other and Aerys who was preoccupied with his books. Aelinor had long ago dismissed her servants and now rose from her chair. Without looking at the bed that she slept alone in, the very one that she had killed her babe in, she went out the door, down long winded hallways, down a short flight of stairs. Another hallway. A spacious solar. For a moment, she hesitated. A voice in her head told her that it was all in vain but still she went.

There was a faint light squeezing from under Aerys' door. Aelinor raised her hand, knocked, and then immediately entered without waiting for a reply. As she expected, he looked up from the book he now placed on his bedcover. "Aelinor," he said. "Why are you here?"

She forced herself to smile. "Why not? Am I not your wife?"

She could tell that he knew where this was going on. His heavy sigh enraged her but she kept herself under control. If she started arguing with him, she could hardly expect to have any success in seducing him, right? Silently, she sat next to him on the bed and placed a hand over his arm. He flinched, although he didn't quite look away.

Aelinor looked around. She hadn't been in his bedchamber for years. Everything was the same – the bare walls, the threadbare carpet, the shelves overflowing with books. A maester would have felt completely at ease here.

"Once, I liked to come to your bedchamber and choose a book among yours, although I couldn't quite read yet," she said, trying to ease him off with the memory of their childhood.

When she looked at him, she saw that she had succeeded: he was smiling. "Yes," he said. "I remember."

But then his smile wavered and disappeared. Aelinor realized that she had to act fast, or lose him this time, too.

"Aerys," she said and looked him in the eye. "I cannot go on like this. I am so tired of this semi-life we're leading. I want to be with you."

For all their years together, that was the first time she explicitly stated the reality of their situation. He sighed again, his eyes deep and sad. "You're asking for something that I cannot give, Aelinor. I… I am sorry. I don't want it to be like this."

She held tighter to the hand he tried to release. "But why?" she asked. "Why? Why can't you?"

There was a peculiar look in his eyes, something that made her want both to hold him and shield him from whatever it was that he feared and shake him, screaming, _Get a hold of yourself! Be a man, just this once!_

"There is more at the stake than you and me, and our desires," he said. "The future of the world is at stake."

_Our desires_, she thought. _There is no such thing as _our_ desires. Just _yours_ and _mine_._

"We must figure it out," he went on. "The dragons will return to dance again. And the world will bathe in blood. We must find out how to make it happen. A hundred years later, the world might be no more."

Aelinor barely kept herself from screaming. She had heard this song so often and in so many variations that she could sing it half-asleep.

"Aerys," she said. "Now."

For a moment, he kept looking at her, not quite seeing her, and then something made him snap out of his world of books and knowledge. "What _now_?"

"Now," she said again. "We're living now. In a hundred year time neither you nor I will be here. We won't see whether you were right. Aerys, I want to live, not waste my life while trying to make the lives of those hundred years from now _possibly_ better."

"Knowledge," he said, "makes everything _certainly_ better."

His voice was as soft as ever, yet Aelinor knew him well enough to know when he would not be dissuaded. She rose angrily and left the bedchamber, her eyes stinging with tears of pain, disappointment, and humiliation that she felt she did not deserve.

For a while, she paced around her own chamber like a caged animal until she felt she could no longer bear the heat her own anger spread all over her body. Without bothering to take a cloak, she left her apartments, descended the stairs, and went out in the wintry night.

In the beginning, the fiery whirlwind of dark emotions raging in her soul did not let her cool; but after a long time of walking around the sleeping courtyards and gardens, she finally felt that the falling snow had started to help. _I won't burn to death tonight_, she thought and sank down on a coach, the recent encounter with Aerys mingling in her mind with the painful fact that Maekar and Naeryn seemed to have restored their relationship. Not only was she with child once again but he often accompanied her during her strolls in the gardens. She talked to him animatedly, her lilac eyes shining, and he smiled as he listened to her. It was not only Aerys who was tormenting her, those two did, as well, taunting her with the unwitting cruelty of happy youth. Everyone was happy but her; to her, there was only one prospect –spending her life unwanted and alone.

She was so engrossed in the whirlwind of dissatisfaction, pain, feeling of loss, jealousy, and mortification that she did not notice the snowflakes falling down upon her. She closed her eyes, telling herself that she was only going to give her fevered mind a minute of rest.

When they found her the next morning, they thought she had died of freezing.

* * *

At first, it wasn't so bad. Only a little stiffness here and there, sometimes a sharp pain when she turned after having sat for too long. And no dancing. With years, though, the problems became more evident. She developed a slight limp that slowly became prominent; she could not walk for long without stopping to take a rest. Too many poses became uncomfortable for her, so she avoided them.

Plagued by guilt, Aerys distanced himself from her further. His regrets, though, never reached as far as starting a real marital life with her. Her parents felt guilty, too, about the way her life had turned out, so there was always this awkwardness between them.

And then, Naeryn died.

Aelinor couldn't believe it – and then she couldn't believe that she hadn't believed it. Naeryn was one of the finest souls she had ever known, with the possible exception of Rhaegel and she was surprised to find out that she had unknowingly believed that doom could not affect someone who was so good. Hadn't she learned by now that gods were not fair, that they loved cruel japes?

She had been jealous of Naeryn. Bitter. Envious. But she had been her friend. She had never wanted her to die. Now, she took Daella and Rhae under her wing whenever they were at King's Landing – or she, at Summerhall. They were more pliable than the boys because they didn't really remember their mother – they just needed someone to play mother for them. And that fulfilled the longing of her own lonely heart, as well, so at the end, both parties were pleased.

Naeryn's death meant another change altogether, as loathe as Aelinor was in the beginning even to consider it. Now Maekar was as lonely as she was. Little by little, they grew close once again, although the passion that had always burned between them was no longer the dominant feeling, replaced by fierce protectiveness of each other, heightened interest in each other's emotional needs and desires. Maybe it was due to the passing of years, or the realization that no matter what they did, they could never have the physical side of their relationship back. It was either that semi-relationship or the terrifying loneliness they both knew so well. She might be sinking into despair and he might be growing bitter with any passing day; but they were not desperate and bitter enough to choose loneliness.

* * *

"Did you finally count them?"

She looked up and smiled at him, not quite understanding. "What?"

"My scars. You are always looking at them so intently. Did you count them, at last?"

Aelinor smiled again and looked aside. Let him think that was what she had been doing. She did not want to count them, had no desire to know just how many times he had been so close to death. Some of those scars ran so near to where his heart beat… They covered him like a web, a map of his life that she had been unable to see being drawn. But in fact, the scars were not the only thing she stared at. She was fascinated by the slackening of the skin over the tight muscles, the coarsening of the hairs on his torso that she remembered so sparse and silky under her fingers when they had been together as a very young boy and girl, not even fully grown, the blue veins throbbing so visibly under the fair skin. His eyes were still deep violet but now there were lines around them even when he wasn't tired. His hair was thick and silver but coarser in texture and lacking lustre, just like her own would have been, had she not been washing it with special potions. She had been alone for so long that she had had no idea how aging would affect a man under the finery, and she felt a faint echo of sadness that they had been unable to go through the changes together. "Go to sleep," she murmured. "You're tired. A whole day with the Small Council is never a good thing."

He closed his eyes, although his breathing did not even out. Lately, he had started grasping any chance to get some rest and since Aelinor had stopped moving much, it was not hard for her to create an environment where he could relax. She curled up next to him with her book. "How can you be so outrageously warm?" she muttered enviously. "It isn't fair. What do you do to achieve it?"

He laughed softly, not bothering to open his eyes. "I have no idea. It just comes pouring off me. Come here, I'll get you warm."

He took care to say it nonchalantly, put her mind at ease that he did not mean it as a carnal invitation. Today was one of her bad days. By the way she moved, he could say that soon, she'd need any additional heat she could find, desperately. The maesters were helpless to stop the frequent inflammations in her hip and leg and getting warm relieved the symptoms somewhat. She put the book aside and he turned on his side, so he could embrace her. Aelinor snuggled up to him, muttering something about a bloody fireplace. He slid a leg between hers to elevate her knee slightly, since this, too, soothed her, and her breathing soon showed him that she had gone to sleep, exhaustedly. He, though, lay wide awake, holding her close, grateful beyond measure that she was finally his, yet frantically afraid of what would happen. Her condition was worsening. In a few years, she might need to be attended… in everything. And she wouldn't let him see just how bad the damage was. Her insecurities saddened him more than he could ever express, yet Aelinor did not seem capable to understand. She thought it was all about her looks. But then, would he have understood, had he started losing his martial prowess? Maekar very much doubted it!

A few hours later, a sudden chill in the huge royal bedchamber made Aelinor shiver and open her eyes. "What are you doing?" she asked sleepily and then was startled awake when she realized what it was. "No!" she cried out and tried to drag the cover back. Maekar didn't let her – he kept staring at the distorted flesh below the nightgown he had just lifted. Bitter tears sprang to her eyes. Everything that she had been hiding for years was now revealed for him to see under the merciless light of the dawn – the twisting, the damaged muscles, the hollows under the skin. She looked aside, unable to take the sight of her own deformity or his revulsion.

"Is that it?" he finally asked and there was something like a smile in his voice. "You cannot possibly know the horrors I imagined I would encounter… Was _this_ the great secret?"

Angrily, she tried to turn aside. Now, her tears were borne of humiliation when she realized she couldn't do even that without leaning on her elbow – and he wasn't about to let her rise. She pushed his hands away and then suddenly had the energy only to curl in a wretched ball of misery.

He placed a hand on her hip, trying to warm it; she shook it away and slowly opened her eyes to look straight at his. "How can you act like this? As if it doesn't matter," she said, her fury flaming once again. "When I know it does. What do you see when you look at me now?"

"You," he said. "Only you. No one has ever wanted me but you."

He didn't say it as a matter of self-pity and she didn't take it this way. It was a fact. He didn't know how to mingle with people and they took it to mean that he didn't want to which contributed to the rumours of his vile, unfeeling nature. Ever before he could talk, he had started hearing the whispers he'd later grow to understand, one of the realities of life. A first son was always fervently desired, as well as a second. But a fourth one? The fourth one was not needed neither as heir nor spare. A fertile queen was almost as troublesome as a barren one, people said. And in their early childhood, their mother's fears of Rhaegel's madness repeating in her youngest led to attitude that made him feel acutely how different it was for him in comparison to his siblings. He had never been able to make many friends. He was not an easy man to like. And Naeryn would have come to love everyone who wasn't a true villain – that was just how she was, that was why he had loved her.

But the words were a powerful reminder just how things were between them. All of a sudden, Aelinor felt stupid for forgetting the truth: her looks had never been the main reason for his attraction to her. Sure, he liked it well enough but it mattered far more to her than it did to him. Their relationship went so deeply that no superficial cuts could break it. And yet, she asked uncertainly, "Is that the main thing that binds us together? Our weaknesses?"

He shook his head. His hand went once again over her hip and this time, she didn't push it away. "No, not our weaknesses but our trust. We show our weakness only to those we trust to understand and accept us in spite of it. You accepted me as I am. Why don't you believe me when I say I accept you, too, just as you are?"

She sighed, feeling unburdened, released. "I believe you," she said and turned on her belly, so he could see the entire damage clearly in the bright sunlight that was already bathing their bedchamber in waterfall of gold.

**The End**


End file.
